


A Nasty Little Fic

by Dreadmartha



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth - Fandom
Genre: Hazy out of focus dubcon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadmartha/pseuds/Dreadmartha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is about bad things happening to a good person. And that good person is Pickle Inspector. And those bad things are Diamonds Droog. Written for my love, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/varietyshow/pseuds/varietyshow">Miss Varietyshow.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nasty Little Fic

At first it just looked like Sleuth had some hair in his face.

It was only when the strip of redness rolled down from his forehead to the tip of his nose that Pickle Inspector knew something was wrong.

His eyes were open, Ace’s were too.

Inspector never realized before how very dark Ace’s eyes were. They were wide open, now, not shaded and squinting.

They were glassy, both pairs, and unnatural. As if they were the eyes of two dolls that had been left sprawled at the doors of the office building. Sleuth still had a hand in his coat. Going for his gun.

Ace never saw it coming.

Oh god

Inspector rushed back inside.

——

It takes him three days to make the call, which is about as long as he can hold up in his office with what little food and water he can scavenge.

You pick up the phone, knowing it’s him. No one else could have figured out your private number.

You hear him struggling to breathe evenly on the other line, and you let him struggle. The next move is his to make, after all.

“P-ple-please d-d-don’t kill me.”

You sit back, listening as he fights the urge to say it over and over, beg you to spare him Sleuth and Dick’s fate.

When his whimpering dies down you check your watch.

“Meet me in the lobby in half an hour.”

You hang up before he can work his stuttering into actual words.

——

The bodies are gone, someone must have called them in. There’s a dark patch on the sidewalk right about where Sleuth’s head was.

Pickle Inspector is standing in the lobby, perfectly alone. He’s shivering, sweating, his hair is matted, his coat wrinkled worse than usual.

As you step inside he cocks the safety back on his gun and the little click echoes around the empty lobby.

To make things more fair, you walk up to him so that the gun is pointed directly at your heart the whole time. It’s a romantic notion, but you’re sure it makes this that much more significant for him.

“I-I c-c-could kill—kill you.”

He spatters it when you’re half-way to him. You move slow, there’s no hurry now.

The stutter, you’ll have to work on that.

He’s been shaking since you walked in and it only gets worse as you get closer. You half expect him to go running back to his office and hide in the dark little corner he’s been cowering in for three days. But he’ll have to face you sooner or later; running away now would only give you an excuse to chase him.

He manages to stay put as you come up to him. The gun shakes hard as you press your chest lightly against the muzzle. The Inspector whimpers. His hold must be slipping, if the sweat on his brow is any indicator.

You slide the palm of one hand over his trembling fingers. They loosen at your touch and you take the gun away from him.

“No,” his eyes widen as you brush the muzzle against his front for a moment, snagging it against one of his shirt’s buttons for a second. He squirms, jerking forward with even that tiny a tug. Exactly how you expect him to. “You can’t.”

You slip the gun into your coat, turn so you stand beside the Inspector, and start walking him to the door. He pants, suddenly, his eyes wide and downcast. One hand covers his mouth, the other raking its fingers through his hair. You have a hand on his shoulder, and without you here to push him along he would stand in this lobby for the rest of his life.

He doesn’t protest as you help him into the passenger’s side of the car, doesn’t try to slip into the driver’s seat and take off. He could, you’ve left the keys in the ignition, and take your time getting in.

But you know he won’t.

The Inspector hunches, curling himself up as best he can as you drive home. You have to help him out of the car, and when he has both feet steady you take a moment to dab at his face with your handkerchief and run your fingers through his hair. The leather gloves take away from the sensation, but you can’t let yourself get caught on sensuality just yet. He hums pathetically against your palm; you have to hold his head down to get a good look at his hair. You return some level of order to his curls, then make him stand up straight.

You consider using his tie as a leash. It might make getting him inside easier, but the idea strikes you as crude.

For all that he may wish he lived the quiet, short life of a rabbit, the Inspector is indeed human.

Once the door is closed behind him, you take more liberties. Like removing his coat, smoothing your hands up and down his sides before taking off your gloves and pressing him against the wall. He gasps as your mouth meets the soft skin on his neck, his body jolting back to life as you push against him.

“D-D-D-” you can feel your name stick in his throat. You hush him, gentle against his ear as you start unbuttoning. He whimpers and curls into your shoulder as you slide a hand down from his throat, to his sharp collarbones, over the skin pulled tight over his sternum, over the dent of his stomach, under the waistband of his ill-fitting pants.

He starts trying to talk again, a hand clutching at your suit as his jaw trembles against your shoulder. You slide your fingers over him as the words start to form, pressing him harder into the wall. His blood is pounding under your lips. He’s nearly speaking as you open your own mouth and slide your teeth over that throbbing vein.

You breathe against his skin for a moment, thinking about how hot and thick his blood would be against your tongue, before you move higher, to where his neck meets his jaw. Your teeth push against his skin for one tense millisecond before it tears under them. He’s silent as blood trickles over your teeth, as you pull back just enough to smooth your tongue over the bite, as you make circles with one finger downward from his navel, as you smooth your palm over his head, hum against his ear and move yourself in one slow grind against him.

He gives up clutching at your lapels, in favor of wrapping his arms, then his legs around you and just trying to hold on.

You can feel how weak he is, how weak you’ve made him. In the tug of his hands, the press of his legs around your hips, the hesitation in his thrusts. He’s tiny and brittle and you could break him so easily.

He’s silent until you’ve moved to the bedroom, when you’ve got him lying in front of you. Enough air between you to keep him from being a ‘little spoon,’ but still close enough for him to feel how warm you are compared to him.

“I didn’t, they didn’t, d-do anything—wrong.”

“No,” you smooth a hand through his hair, remembering how his body convulsed under yours, his hips rising to meet you as he gasped and clutched at the sheets. “But this way I get you all to myself.”

“I-I-I d-d-,” you press your lips to one of the red patches on his neck.

“We’ll work on the stutter.”

——

You get him decent clothes, dress him to create an image of himself he doesn’t recognize. Tall, pale, thin and tailored in black, at a glance he looks like the Grim Reaper.

That thought makes the skin around your eyes crinkle.

“P-part of the—Crew?”

“No, not quite.”

You would say your assistant, if you felt you needed one. Or that he could fulfill such a role.

He does come along on business. At first you only have him watch, see what his limit for gore is. How much pain he can handle is a private matter, how much he can stand to see is different. Life as a consulting detective must have exposed him to some of your world.

His tolerance for watching increases, mission by mission.

When he’s ready, you get him a decent gun.

——

He’s having trouble, you knew he would.

The man on the floor won’t try to fight him with you watching, and still the Inspector is having trouble. He can’t stop shaking, but his hold on the gun is firm. For once.

The man on the floor doesn’t look up or crack wise. You wish he would, just to see if it would get the Inspector to act. Instead, he sits there and looks at the kneecap you shattered.

You’ll have to help the Inspector.

You touch his shoulder and, when that doesn’t work, move yourself flush against him. He stops shaking as you rest your head on his shoulder, starts breathing hard and fast. He’s been holding his breath.

“D-Droog,”

You hush him, smoothing your hand down his outstretched arm. His muscles are tense and straining under his sleeve. You wrap your hand around his wrist.

“Lock your wrist.”

He flinches, then breathes slowly and follows orders.

“Aim.”

He angles down towards the crown of the wounded man’s head. You hold him there for a moment, then step back and watch.

He exerts four pounds of force and puts a hole through the man’s skull.

You wait.

He may crumble to the floor, curl up and weep, he might throw the gun away and vomit.

He swallows hard, looking at the gun, then swallows again and again.

He keeps it down.

He looks over at you.

“Was that, was that good?”

——

It occurred to you, once or twice, that this might happen.

But you never thought of it as anything more than you subconsciously playing Devil’s Advocate with yourself.

You certainly didn’t think of it as a premonition.

It makes sense, of course. The idea behind all this was to test the Inspector, find out how much you really knew about him. And finding out you know everything you thought you did is less than intriguing. It’s gratifying, it’s proof that you’re not only self aware but a great judge of character.

But it’s not very interesting.

You break it to him.

“We’re done.”

He stares at you.

“But. But this is what you wanted. I’m, I’m just like you now.”

“If I wanted to see myself, I’d look in the mirror. And no, you are not like me.”

“But—”

“That’s enough, Inspector.” You pull your coat on.

“Y-y-you—I-I did—I gave you—everything.”

“Remember what I taught you about that stutter.”

You hear it, but the bullets hit before you can move. Close range.

Air presses into the two holes in your back.

Lung.

Heart.

You grab at the door frame for support, wheezing as the world lurches around you.

“D-Did you,” you pant for a moment, “Lock, your wrist.”

“Yes.”

The gun presses against your temple and for a moment everything is burning hot and you hear bone cracking.

Then everything is silent.


End file.
